


21st Century Cure

by theJokette



Category: American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:02:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9667241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theJokette/pseuds/theJokette
Summary: Before the beginning of the end, there was Annalise- a girl who unwittingly befriended the Devil. After her premature death, she is reincarnated and moves into the Murder House with her newly-divorced mother. A blonde ghost is intent on making her remember their past together, but what she doesn't know may kill her for good.





	

"I just ain't sure about it, Anna," a female's voice sounds from the speakers of her computer, but the girl is unable to see her friend as she busies herself with unpacking moving boxes. "It just don't seem right with you and your momma being out there all by yourselves," she's concerned, as any good friend would be. Annalise became distant when her parents got divorced, and withdrew completely when her father won custody over her younger twin brothers. Finally, after several minutes of silence from the opposite end of the computer, Annalise appears at the corner of the screen before settling on the edge of her bed. Her hair is pulled back and fresh blue dye is smudged at her temples. 

"Mandy," her voice is tired, and her chest heaves with a quiet sigh before she regards her friend with an exasperated expression. "You know damn well my mother is ruthless," she lifts her hand and scratches her scalp absently, staining the tips of her fingers with hair dye. It isn't that her mother is unkind, because Samantha would give a stranger the clothes off her back if she thought they needed them, but if someone were to mess with Anna or her brothers, she would stop at nothing to protect them. Her own temper, a quiet anger which felt as if it were burning her alive from the inside out was similar to that of her uncle's. "This place was cheap," she hasn't told Mandy the real reason they got the house for the price they did, and has no intentions of doing so. "Not to mention the fact we needed a place to live."

Mandy sighs and fingers a loose thread on the hem of her shirt sleeve. If it had been it option, she would have insisted her friend move in with her and her family, but there simply wasn't any room and she knew Anna wouldn't leave her mother, especially after the divorce. She opens her mouth to speak when she hears her mother's voice, the older woman yelling from down the hall that supper is ready and to come and eat. Full lips purse together and she offers a weak smile, "I gotta go, Ma is callin' me," she says, and her friend nods, offering a small wave rather than telling her goodbye, and the call ends when Annalise closes her laptop. A moment passes before Mandy finally leaves her room, because she can't help the feeling something is wrong.

Although she's closed her laptop, Annalise remains where she is. Her shoulders slump and she closes her eyes, breathing in deeply through her nose several times before twisting and opening the drawer of her bedside table. She had only smoked once before when her mother told her she was filing divorce papers, but took up smoking regularly, averaging a pack per week or so, when the court decided to award her dick of a father custody over Andrew and Alexander. The teen digs a cigarette from the pack before wrestling a white Bic lighter from her pocket and sticking the cancer stick between her lips, filling her lungs with smoke before rising from the bed. Small feet pace around her new bedroom as she puffs away, only cracking the window on the far end of the room after she's stubbed out the cigarette in an ash tray she's carefully hidden out of sight. Annalise is sure her mother knows about her newest habit, because the smell of smoke lingers, clinging to her in an otherwise smokeless home, but she still does what she can to keep it out of view.

She decides it's time to rinse the dye out of her hair and heads into the bathroom. If there's one good thing about the move other than the aesthetically pleasing house and its dark history, it's the fact she finally has her own bathroom. Rinsing the dye out without taking a shower, though, doesn't seem to be an option with the antique bathtub, so she carefully peels off her tee shirt and unsnaps her bra, slinging it in the direction of the door before wiggling out of her jeans and kicking her panties to the side. The spray of the water is warm, and rivets of blue dance along her pale skin as she works her slender fingers through her thick hair. Her body is plain, with few freckles and shallow curves, her small breasts barely filling the B cups of her bra and her hips devastatingly narrow. Annalise is convinced this is the reason she feels the need to tattoo her body, and so far has accumulated the skeletal structure of a cat on her right hip, the names of her brothers on her inner right bicep, and an anti-possession tattoo on the left side of her chest. In time, she plans on getting more when she has the extra money. 

The thought of new tattoos are replaced by an eerie feeling, and as she lathers color-shielding shampoo in her hands, she feels as if there are a set of eyes on her. Her own narrow slightly and her hands still as she slowly turns in the shower, looking over her shoulder before hesitantly peeking around from behind the shower curtain. The mirror has become foggy with the steam circulating in the room, _it's going to take some getting used to remembering to turn on the vent before she gets in the shower_ , but otherwise the room is empty, her clothes scattered in the same places she left them. Annalise pushes the thought from her mind although the feeling doesn't subside, and washes her hair quickly, turning the water over to as cold as she can possibly stand to help lock in the color. 

Finally, she steps out of the shower after ringing out the excess water in her hair and quickly wraps a towel around herself. Rather than drying off right away, she pads over to the mirror to take a look at her hair, an old habit, and wipes her hand across the foggy glass. Standing behind her is a curly, blonde-headed boy who looks like he stole Kurt Cobain's wardrobe.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Club 27


End file.
